Father's Day
by babybluecas
Summary: The morning of the Father's Day goes just slightly differently than Dean planned it.


Sunday mornings are the best for sleeping in. It's an unwritten contract: Cas takes care of Maya and makes breakfast, Dean doesn't get out of bed until his bones start to ache.

That, of course, only applies to the regular Sundays. Today, Dean's phone, stuffed deep under his pillow, was set to wake him up at way-too-early o'clock. He was supposed to roll out of the sheets, still warm with Cas's heat right beside him, sneak downstairs into the kitchen and return with coffee and a pile of pancakes for the second best father in the world.

That was a plan, plain and simple. But then, plans sometimes have a way of not working out. Especially when they're sabotaged by a plugged out charger and an early bird of a partner.

"Son of a–" Dean grumbles, putting the wrist watch back on the nightstand. Beside him, the bed has already grown cold.

He lazily feels for the wire without looking, as he tries to decide whether he should go downstairs or stay as he is in the warm rays of sun brushing his face. There's no rush now, is there? Maybe, if he's lucky, Cas had a similar plan to his and there's a big cup of steaming coffee coming his way. After all, it's his day too.

He finds the wayward wire, at last, thrusts it into the charging slot in his phone and sinks his head back into the pillow. Eyes closed, he listens in for the sounds carrying from downstairs: the hum of boiling water, sizzling oil on a pan, Maya giggling at a cartoon on the tv, Cas singing along to some dumb pop song, which he swears he doesn't do.

There's nothing. Dean opens one eye, glances at the door—it's left wide open. Still, all he can hear is chirping of the buds outside the window and a muffled roar of passing cars.

Well, this is not suspicious at all.

Reluctantly, Dean pushes the sheets away, slips his bare feet into his slippers and seeps out of the bedroom into the corridor. Still nothing. He claps his thigh for the phone he left on the nightstand. He's pretty sure it is Sunday. Perhaps he's not the only one who slept in today.

He crosses the floor to get to Maya's door, ajar just as he left it last night. Quietly, not to wake her, he peeks in through the crack, the view leading straight to her bed.

But the bed is empty, the sheets crumpled and discarded at its feet. For a split second, his heart pauses. He pushes the door, a little more rapidly than needed.

"No! Don't come in!" Maya calls, throwing her arms over the plastic table she's kneeling by. She's still in her PJs, one sock missing from her foot. She doesn't even turn around to see who came in, too busy hiding the highly confidential project from the intruder. "Goooo!"

"Okay, okay," Dean placates her, stepping back over the threshold. There's little use in asking about the work that got her so engrossed she forgot about the rest of the world, including her dads. "Where's papa?"

With a tiny, annoyed huff, Maya finally turns to him.

She rubs her chin. "Sleeping," she decides, lifting her palms up in a shrug and, content with her own answer, she grabs the blue pencil and returns to her work.

"Nope, Papa's not sleeping," Dean mutters, more to himself than to his daughter. Cas must have passed by before she woke up, so that at least gives Dean a very vague timeline. "I'll check downstairs, you'll be good here, yeah?"

Maya rubs her socked and sockless feet together and doesn't even acknowledge his question.

"The sock's by the bed," he offers, pushing himself off the doorframe.

That his daughter hears. She shuffles around to get a good look at her feet, but instead of reaching for the missing piece of clothing, she pulls off the one sock that was in its place and throws it away just to quickly get back to work.

Dean shakes his head. "Okay," he blurts, half-discouraged, half-amused, and leaves her to it.

Cas is not downstairs. He's not in the kitchen, not in the living room, not nowhere. Dean checked the whole plane for him, then he rechecked it for a note from him. Nada.

Well, if he's late for the pancakes, that's his own damn fault for disappearing this bright and early without a word.

Dean gets the coffee brewing and heads back upstairs. He's washed and dressed by the time Maya announces she's finished and daddy can officially enter her room, as long as he doesn't try to peep at her work.

She's waiting patiently, on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs back and forth where they hang, while Dean picks out a handful of clothes and plops down next to her.

"Where's papa?" she asks, echoing Dean's question.

Dean shrugs. "Went out."

"Went out where?"

"I have no idea," he says, frankly, pulling a checkered shirt over her head.

With a pout, she pulls the shirt down. Fingers laced, she sways side to side, cooking up something heavier for him. He's learned to read the signs by now. After all, it is the age of questions with capital 'q' that she's in.

"Where's your papa?"

Dean stops flipping the socks mid-movement and narrows his eyes at her.

"My papa?"

Maya nods.

Was it her kindergarten teacher that put her up to it? Father's Day lecture with a homework of family bonding and memories sharing? What's next? Drawing a family tree with roots branching out to God?

"Well," he begins as Maya climbs into his lap. Then he stops, unsure how to answer.

He was a whole year older than her when he found out what 'dead' truly means. He learned it the hardest way, something no kid should have to go through. But kids do, sometimes, because this world sucks and horrible shit happens. Dean knows all that, all too well and he can only shield her from the worst parts for so long.

But then, as long as he can, he will.

"My dad's with the angels, baby," he says, at last. Extremely lamely, at that, but technically (possibly) truthfully. "Just like my mom."

Thank luck for soap operas.

"Oh," she hums, mulling his answer over, then nods and resumes dressing, as if nothing happened and her dad didn't just go through a micro-crisis.

Relieved, Dean sighs and reaches out to help Maya with the seams of the socks. But he's not out of the woods yet.

"What about papa's dad?"

Dean sucks in a breath. Alright, now, that's a little too much for him. Your grandpa's God, honey. Yeah, not so much.

Sure, he can get away with the same answer he gave earlier. And he probably should. He opens his mouth to speak but gets saved by a familiar roar of an engine outside the open window.

"Know what? How about you ask papa?"

Yes, he's that much if an asshole boyfriend. Whatever works, right? At least there's a real chance she'll forget the question before she gets downstairs with her top secret sheet of paper folded in her palms.

She does.

"Good you're back, was about to make pancakes," Dean tells Cas in lieu of good morning, as soon as the guy enters the living room, a little winded.

"Great," Cas replies, leaning to press a kiss to the top of Maya's head. "I was hoping I'd be back before you wake up. What do you got there, honey?"

"Top secret," Dean teases, crossing his arms.

"No, it's not!" Maya announces, skipping to the table. "It's for you and daddy."

Dean and Cas crouch behind her and watch her unfold the sheet of paper to reveal a drawing: three people sitting in a black car. I'd be hard not to recognize their little family happily traveling in the Impala; not with the big blue circles of Cas's eyes and the brown spatter of freckles on Dean's and Maya's cheeks.

"Why does my mouth look like that?" Dean questions, pointing at the loop taking half of his face.

"You're singing," Maya explains. "And papa's singing quietly," she adds, bringing her voice to a whisper.

Cas chuckles. "It's amazing, Maya."

"Dang, look at those wheels," Dean adds, admiring the fine details that came from under four-year-old's hand. "Awesome."

"Happy Father's Day!" Maya shouts, spreading her arms wide in an attempt to hug them both at once.

"Thank you, Mays," Dean says, squeezing her tightly and lifting the drawing. "I think we should put it on the fridge. What do you think, papa?"

"Definitely," Cas agrees, not moving from his spot. "You should do that."

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing and goes to the kitchen without a parade following him. He rearranges the cards and pictures on the fridge to free some space in the center and puts the drawing up.

Happy with the result, he returns to the living room to carry out an interrogation on Cas. Cas and Maya already await him, both wearing mysterious faces. In the little one's palms, there's a tiny, painfully bright, green gift bag.

"Papa told me to give this to you," Maya says frankly, running over to Dean and holding out the bag with a grin.

Behind her, Cas shakes his head. "You weren't supposed to say that," he mutters.

"Really?" Dean takes the gift, ignoring him. "Hmm, what is it?"

Maya shrugs. "I don't know."

Dean looks to Cas, his face expressing nothing but an increasing distress.

"Okay, let's see," Dean says slipping his fingers into the bag until they encounter a soft touch of fabric. "Is that a—?" he starts, trying not to burst out laughing. When he pulls out the gift, the fabric unrolls.

Hanging off his palm, there's a gray tie. A freaking tie.

Maya takes a close look at the gift she gave him. "Do you like it?" she asks as if she chose it herself.

"I love it," he assures her, hardly hiding amusement.

"Put it on!"

"Let me." Cas steps up before Dean can move.

He takes the tie from Dean's hand, leads it around his neck. His unpracticed fingers work the fabric into a knot, the way Dean taught him years ago. Dean licks his mouth but remains otherwise still to let Cas prove himself.

"Cas," he starts quietly so that Maya can't hear him, trying real hard to sound serious, "when was the last time you saw me wearing a tie."

"I think—" Cas doesn't take his eyes off his fingers adjusting the knot. "I think on Sam's wedding."

"Mhm." Dean purses his lips. "So like two years ago?"

Cas doesn't answer, soothing the tie against Dean's chest. It must look ridiculous with a plain t-shirt. Definitely feels ridiculous.

"I forgot it was today and I panicked," he admits, at last, looking like a puppy that peed on the carpet. "You always prepare something, baking, picnic. So I—"

"Googled 'gifts for Father's Day'?" Dean offers.

Cas hangs his head. "Yeah."

Dean can't hold back anymore, he lets out a salve of laughter that bends him in half. He pats Cas on the shoulder.

"You're unbelievable," he murmurs, still chuckling.

He pulls Cas in to presses a brief kiss to his pouting lips, succeeds at bringing back an embarrassed smile. There's a whole lot of reasons why Dean fell in love with Cas in the first place, why it's Cas he can't imagine his life, his home, without. This here is just one of them, but it's a big one.

"Your turn, daddy!" Maya calls, bouncing around them. She holds up her arms like she's expecting a reprise of her role of world's cutest delivery gal.

"Huh?" Suddenly a tie doesn't look like the worst gift ever. "I don't uh—"

"Daddy's making pancakes," Cas says, saving him. Still, he does so with a smug smirk blooming on his face.

"Well then make them already!" Maya says, pulling Dean's hand to lead him to the kitchen.

Dean, in turn, tugs Cas. He might as well recruit some help.

He's got a lot more planned. A little road trip, compulsory visit in an amusement park. It's the day for family bonding, after all, spending quality time with fathers, sharing memories and having fun. Or so Dean read (thanks, Google).

For now, they've got the sweet breakfast to enjoy, the smell of fresh pancakes and hum of music on the radio filling the kitchen. Dean sets the plate in front of Maya, who plays with her fingers, sways a little in her chair. Here it comes.

"Papa?" Maya starts, as Dean takes his place opposite Cas. One deer in the headlights face coming right up. "Where's your papa?"


End file.
